First Aid Kit: Syringe
by tihku
Summary: After an explosion, Batman wakes up in obscure surroundings.


**Syringe**

Your consciousness flutters in the past. It taunts you. It mocks you. You try to change the flow of the situation, but everything you do returns into nothingness, into blood on your hands and on your parents' dead, motionless bodies.

You wake up, not as the boy from your dreams but as an adult man. As you do so, a sudden rush of pain washes over you and you are in between gasping and crushing your teeth against each other. Everything is diluted. Someone is grasping your hand. You are on a bed, you are tied, you cannot move.

You have your mask on.

Someone is grasping your hand and their head is on your stomach.

You try to overcome your shock. You breathe in slowly. You are strong. Your will is strong. You exhale. You blink your eyes, and your vision becomes clear. A bulb illuminates cold light all around the room that reminds you of a hospital.

You lift your head and see the person who has their fingers intertwined with yours. It's a woman from the looks of it, with an orange, long dress and a turquoise straw hat that covers her head. You can't see her face. She is halfway slumped all over you and seems to be asleep.

You can feel the warm flush of air escape her nostrils against your thin blanket.

How did you get there? You try to remember. Then, all of a sudden, the memory comes back to you.

A mob fight. Falcone's men were clashing with Penguin's. One of the sides had tried cheating in drug market, and the whole city block had become their battle field full of bullets and fire. Commissioner Gordon and the rest of the police force were coming, but they were too slow. There were innocent people, and they were at a high risk of dying. It had to stop. You had to stop it.

You took the mobs one by one. You were the shadow behind them. You attacked them when they were careless enough not to watch their backs. A small jab at their necks, and they fell silently on the ground, unconscious but alive.

Almost everything was under your control. It was not enough. They did not only sell drugs in the gambling saloon. They also sold _explosives_. The place was on fire and you were too concentrated on every single other thing but the simple, shabby wooden boxes in the corner of the hall.

The last thing you remember is a strong blast and a flash of light.

Your thoughts come back to the hospital room, and you notice that you have been staring at a flower vase close to your pillow.

You wonder whether the police found you and took you to a hospital. Something does not fit the picture; actually, the whole situation is off.

The burning feeling runs through your body once again, but you try to ignore it, you try to find _clues_.

You have your mask on. The police and the medical personnel wouldn't have left it so: first of all, you are a vigilante. You fight for justice, yet your actions can be considered illegal. The police _would've _looked at your face, and they would've had no reason to conceal it from you. Secondly, there is probably a small cut on your head as there is dry blood coming from under the edge of your mask. No doctor or nurse would've dismissed that.

Moreover, not even the most violent criminals are tied as tight into the bed as you are. It's ridiculous. There are ropes roaming on and under the blanket. Your head and your left arm are the only parts of you that are exposed.

If anything, you know that you are not safe; far from it. You don't want to wake the woman lying on you, not before you have cleared up your mind.

You are still staring at the vase.

It's full of roses. The bouquet is rich of different bright colors from pink to glowing yellow. It hardly fits the glass container. Someone must have been forcing the flowers into the vase as you see a couple of them hanging limply towards the small table.

_Impatient. _Probably aggressive. Childish..? You try to form a diagnosis in your head of the person behind all of this, and as you do so,

you notice slight movement among the roses.

There is a living, wiggling butterfly, pierced by a needle to a flower. The sharp point of the needle is turned upside-down so that it's visible. Exceptionally, the flower is not a rose; it's of another species. You are familiar with it, yet you struggle to find the right name... It's on the tip of your tongue, it is -

All of a sudden, everything falls into place.

"It's a joke", you state in a raspy, dry voice.

The breathing on your stomach quickens and becomes wavering. The person on you tremors slightly.

"Isn't it..."

The head rises, and you see a pale, lucid face that beams at you.

"_Joker_?"

"I must congratulate you, _Batssss_!" he says between giggles. "It seems that your brains are still intact and working! Usually, the doctors ask all those questions, such as "What year is it?", "What is your name?" or "Are you a cucumber or not?" **but **I find them very humdrum. _Besides_, who cares? It's a lot worse to lose your good taste in humor than to forget some petty details!"

Joker lifts his upper body completely up and frees your hand.

"I'm a bit disappointed, though. It took you some time to figure it out. And I even left you very obvious clues! Like that _Harlequin Flower _over there. Tell me you got the joke right, at the very least?"

You frown at him and sigh.

"_What kind of flowers sting_?" you mutter. Joker's smile widens, and he leans closer to you.

"_Eeeeh_..?" he says theatrically, playing along. "Roses?"

"Those that have _needles _on them."

Joker laughs.

"It seems I don't have to mercy kill you. And I do excuse your slowness. You are tired, after all... So am I. Loss of _blood _does the trick..."

You look at him questioningly. Joker caresses an IV line between his fingers, lost in thought.

"It's _my_ blood in here, you see. I provided you other people's _juices _at first, but well... I changed my mind. There is a reason those others are _dead _and I am not, right?"

You cut him halfway.

"_Dead_? Who did you murder _this time_?"

"Ta-ta, _darling_, keep your mouth zipped while I talk. I didn't kill anyone – well, _approximately_, now that I think about it..." _(you screech your teeth in anger, which seems to amuse him)_ "... – Anyway! I thought, maybe my blood would brighten you up quicker. I'm _O-_, so transfusion posed _no problemo_! Besides..."

Joker winks an eye.

"I've always wanted to get _under your skin_."

You stare at him gloomily.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Because I could. Because I wanted to. We are in Walter Moers' _A Wild Ride Through the Night_, you are the young Doré and I am Death. Death could take Doré's life anytime he wanted, but the little boy is unfinished. Incomplete. And so Death, being the bastard he is, wants to wait until Doré becomes perfect. _That's_ when he strikes."

"And for I to become perfect..." you start.

"... You'd need to break your One Puny Rule", he finishes your sentence. "So, you are quite safe with me as I'm not deliberately trying to kill you. Not _yet_, at least. Can't promise you anything. I might be gentle _now_, but that doesn't last forever."

Joker climbs onto the bed, legs and arms supporting him so that he doesn't touch you. However, he brings his face far too close to your private space – you turn your head away as much as you can – and he whispers in silent yet furious tone into your ear:

"You show any trace of weakness one more time, and I'll let dear old _Humphry Dumpler _fix you up. And _that_, I assure you, is messy."

And all of a sudden, he claws his fingers into one of your wounds and you _scream_.

Before you even know it, he is out of bed, smiling at you. You gasp for air and give him a murderous glare.

"But, my, **my**. Look at the time! As much as I'd like to continue this discussion with you, I've got business to attend to. I presume that you know the _exit _without my guidance?" he says cheerfully. "Some of my _friends _are coming to this place in, _lemme check, two hours_? – and they, well, they would fancy your presence perhaps a bit too much for your own good. _Get the hint_? Uh, anyway. _Tschau!_"

Joker dances out of the door, leaving you all alone in the room. There is a clock ticking on the wall, and you notice that number 7 is switched with a smiley.

You inhale deeply and examine your surroundings thoroughly.

"Two hours?" you mutter to yourself.

"I need _half an hour_ to get out of this place."


End file.
